


The Perfect Match

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dating, First Dates, Game Shows, Gift Exchange, H/D Owlpost Holiday Fest, Holidays, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Secret Identity, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-22 04:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16591025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: After a disastrous blind date lands him an unflattering headline in theProphet,Harry's friends convince him that being a contestant on a wizarding dating show couldn't be any worse.





	The Perfect Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/gifts).



> Dear bix,  
> You are such a bright light in fandom, and I was thrilled to write for you! I apologise for the lack of smut, but these boys demanded feels and fluff. I hope it brings you joy, nonetheless. Happy holidays, lovely!! ❤️❤️
> 
> Thank you to my three incredible betas: [keyflight790](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790); [dspd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dspd/pseuds/dspd); and [crazyparakiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss). I may have come to you with my hands out at the last minute but you tackled this with aplomb, doing a thorough and brilliant job while cheering me with your comments and humour. I can't thank you enough!!!
> 
> A/N: rated a soft M for language; sexual innuendo/content; and a brief description of panic.

 

* * *

  


 

The smear of lipstick sits across the row of perfectly aligned teeth, its waxy lines spreading by the second.

 _“Everyone_ knows Romanian Longhorn horns are Class B tradeables. But that didn’t stop Barclay from professing his ignorance. He actually told the magistrate that he thought it was obtained from a Hungarian Horntail!”

Harry wonders how many drinks it’ll take for that swath of red to dissolve. Or, better yet, until he ceases to care. “Shocking,” he replies, staring at his glass. It’s his third—no, fourth—one of the hour, and the edges of the ice cubes are becoming indistinguishable from the amber of the whisky.

“Isn’t it, though? Of course, his denial couldn’t hold up against the overwhelming data that our department provided.”

Harry lifts a brow. “I was a consultant on the case, Justine. Auror Malfoy was the one who realised that the Romanian’s horn had a different bone core from the Hungarian, allowing for its identification.”

“Be that as it may,” Justine sniffs, the edges of her sharp bob swaying. “It was the Unspeakables who created the reagent that distinguished between the excrescences.”

Harry fails to hold in the sigh as his dining companion continues to chatter. Outwardly, he grants her an occasional nod or a half-hearted smile. Inwardly, he resolves never to allow one of his well-meaning friends to set him up on a date again. Ever. He’ll take his worn Gryffindor pyjama pants, the threadbare divot in his couch, and takeaway and the telly over this debacle any day.

They haven’t even had their entrees yet, and he’s already wondering how pissed he can get before it borders on improper. The buzz of the conversation around them fails to mask Justine’s judgmental tones; in fact, if anything, she seems to be growing louder.

Something Justine says manages to catch his attention. “Erm...what?”

“I said, the Wizengamot handed Barclay his sentence today. Ten years in Azkaban, with no possibility for parole.”

“Ten years? Barclay wasn’t even the main person involved in obtaining the Hungarian horn! Fowle got half that, and he was the one who created the dummy accounts for the illegal materials.” Harry’s stomach turned at the thought. Barclay, while guilty, was the last in a long line of people who had benefited by the horn's use. The profit he turned in that dingy potions shop, selling cheap and barely-effective aphrodisiacs made from the discarded shavings, was minuscule, at best.

“I thought you’d be ecstatic. Another successful case. Another menace off our streets.”

The sides of Harry’s mouth settle into an unhappy frown. “I’m happy that we solved the case and that Barclay was brought to trial. I’m certainly not ecstatic that he’s being made an example of—”

“Oh, Harry.” Justine says, her expression managing to be both patronising and sympathetic. “He’s not being made an example for his role in the use of the horn. He’s being made an example of because of who he is.”

“And who, exactly, is that?”

“A Death Eater, of course.” Justine makes a dismissive motion, her bright red, manicured nails claw-like as she waves them about.

Harry sets down his drink. If his knuckles are a bit white, he doesn’t notice. “A reformed man, who’s already paid his dues.”

“And who returned society’s leniency and favour by doing something illegal. The thing is, Harry, darling, that people can never be entirely reformed.  As Mr Barclay clearly demonstrates, the wicked never change their spots.”

“I guess that means you’ll always be a bloody cunt,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Although apparently, it’s not quite muttered enough. “Excuse me?” Justine shrieks, her high-pitched caterwauling garnering even more attention. “What did you say?”

 _Fuck improper._ “I’ve lost my appetite,” Harry snaps as he stands. It’s with the greatest of effort that he keeps from Disapparating as he desperately flags down their waiter.

**❤️XOXO❤️**

“No. I don’t care if it’s Liam Holmlund from the Nordic National Quidditch team. You’re not setting me up on another date.”

“But Justine was Seamus’ pick!” Ron protests. “And I know she can be a bit of a nutter, but was it really that bad?”

Draco takes a copy of the _Prophet_ that someone’s left on the cafeteria table and slides it over. Under the remnants of a smushed broccoli floret screams the headline: **_I Saved Her from the Saviour: A Busboy Spills all the Dirty Secrets._ **

“Shite,” Ron says as he looks the front page over. He scratches at something on the photo, his blue eyes growing larger when it fails to come off. “That’s not a grease stain on your face, is it?”

Harry rolls his eyes as Ron fails to hide his grin. Even Hermione looks to be biting her tongue. Out of his so-called friends, only Malfoy remains unamused, although he never seems completely at ease with what’s become their routine. After five years of being partnered together, he still treats their workday lunches as if it were a temporary thing. As if he’s waiting for the day when their “Golden Quartet” will revert back to being a trio.

“Justine’s got a mean left hook. As does the busboy.”

“Not the best look for the future Head Auror,” Draco says drily.

Harry rests his head in his hands. The paparazzi shots and the remnants of his hangover are doing wonders for his patience. “Could you imagine what they would’ve said if I tried to defend myself? It’s a good thing I’ve become an expert at healing charms.”

Draco’s lips pull down in a pretty frown. “La Vache Tachetée is a terrible venue for a blind date. That place is a paparazzi magnet.” He takes the paper and Vanishes it with a quick flick of his wand. “What happened, anyway?”

“She said something I disagreed with. Intensely.” And then, in a lower voice, “I may have called her a cunt.”

“Harry.” Hermione puts her hand over his, her face an astonishing mixture of sympathy and disapproval. “What could she possibly have said that would make you do that?”

Harry slides a look over at Draco, who’s watching him with a cautious curiosity. “Nothing,” he mumbles. He turns his attention back to the chicken that’s staring at him from his plate, slathered in a thick, brown sauce and looking entirely unappetising. “She chose the restaurant,” he adds defensively as he digs in. “They all do. I can’t remember the last time someone wanted to go somewhere that wasn’t either ridiculously expensive, or impossible to get into, or filled with wizarding celebrities. It’s one of the benefits of dating ‘Harry Potter’,” he finishes sarcastically.

Ron’s eyes light up. “You know what could work? A dating show!”

Harry gawps; somewhere next to him, Draco’s fork drops onto his tray with a clatter. “Right. Because my life isn’t public enough.”

“No! Listen to me; there’s this new show called _The Perfect Match._ It’d be great for you!”

“Actually, Harry, Ron’s right.” Hermione gives Ron one of _those_ looks, which makes Harry think it’s not the first time they’ve had this discussion. “It’s based on a Muggle television show called _The Dating Game._ The wizard or witch asks a series of questions to three other contestants. At the end of the show, they choose the person with whom they’re the most compatible, and go on a series of dates.”

Harry’s heart sinks at Hermione’s words. “Honestly, Hermione, it sounds like a rubbish set-up. Can you imagine the people who go on that thing? They’re probably desperately bored, or desperate for attention, or just plain _desperate.”_

“It’s not like that—” Ron stops as Draco pushes back his seat. Draco’s pale colouring is now a sickly green, and his back is strangely rigid. “You okay, Malfoy?”

“I...” There’s a thin sheen of sweat that’s starting to develop across his forehead. “I think the milk’s turned. The milk I used in my coffee,” he adds helplessly. He gets up and waves Harry off as he begins to stand. “I’m okay. I’ll have those reports ready for you later, Harry.”

“‘Kay,” Harry says as he sits back down. He frowns; he can’t remember the last time Draco got sick.

“Strange,” Ron muses. He watches Draco leave, then swings back towards Harry. “Anyway, like I was saying; it’s not like that. This is a _wizarding_ version of the show. They tweaked the Muggle version. A lot.”

 _“The Dating Game_ was a cultural phenomenon. My parents used to watch it all the time,” Hermione explains. “The idea behind the wizarding version is the same: to make a love match, based on personality. In the original version, the contestants remained hidden behind a panel until the winner was announced. But in _The Perfect Match,_ everyone’s Polyjuiced.”

“That might work in an ideal world, Hermione. But physical compatibility is important, too.”

“Agreed. From what I understand, the screening process is fairly involved. There are certain non-negotiable criteria, like sexual identity. Then, the producers weigh things like sexual and physical preferences, hobbies, and likes and dislikes when matching potential contestants. It’s a complex algorithm.”

“So how exactly does the Polyjuice work?”

“That’s the kicker,” Ron laughs. “Think about a _Gemino._ Times three.”

“What my dear husband means is that the potion makers take attributes from each of the three candidates and create one potion for all to take.”

“Wait...so all three candidates look the same?” Harry shakes his head at the image. The whole concept is strange, and getting stranger still. “If they’re worried about anonymity, why not use a glamour?”

“Glamours can be affected by a person’s appearance,” Ron reminds him. “Plus, their effectiveness depends on the skill of the person casting it.”

“The Polyjuice really levels the playing field. Plus, they need to maintain the illusion for more than one night,” Hermione adds. “Once the contestants are matched, they each take the other out on a date. After that, _if_ they wish to take the relationship further, the Polyjuice is reversed.”

The entire thing is a bit overwhelming, but it’s not without merit. “What happens if the dates go tits-up?” Harry asks reluctantly.

“Then they say their goodbyes—with no reveal, none the wiser. It’s bloody brilliant!” Ron finishes.

“It seems pretty extreme, just for a date.”

“You’d be surprised at how competitive it is to become a contestant. The producers put the candidates through an intense vetting process, including questionnaires and in-person interviews.”

“The Auror’s exam is easier than this,” Harry sighs.

“People want to be loved for _who_ they are. It doesn’t matter if they’re famous, or beautiful, or wealthy. That’s why Ron and I think it’d be perfect. Imagine finding someone who you click with, who’s interested in you. Not _Harry Potter._ Just...Harry.”

It’s everything that Harry wants, and also what he fears the most. What if no one wants him for himself?

“I’ll think about it,” he says gamely, unable to miss the happiness that lights up his best friends’ faces.

  **❤️**  

When Harry makes it back into the small office that he shares with Draco, he notices that Draco doesn’t look unwell. In fact, there are spots of pink dancing across his sharp cheeks, and if the piece of parchment that he’s currently destroying with his quill has anything to say about it, it appears that his vigour is restored as well.

“You okay? I can cover the rest of the afternoon if you’re not feeling up to it.” Harry puts his hand on Draco’s shoulders in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, only to flinch when Draco moves subtly, but surely, away.

It still hurts. It had taken Harry nearly three years into their working relationship to admit that _maybe_ he had a bit of a pash for Draco. Or, at least, a thing for aristocratic blonds with sneering lips and teasing drawls, and quick minds and sharp tongues. And bonus points for those who handle their wands with ease.

(The ones found in Ollivander’s, thank you very much. Harry doesn’t know about the other; at least, not personally. Unfortunately).

Draco’s usually incredibly guarded, so closed off. He sits at the fringes of the Ministry parties, looking _nothing_ like the toff Harry had once thought him to be. There are glimpses of someone else, certainly, in his sense of humour, and those rare, warm embraces. Those things that he’s reserved for his closest of friends, like Blaise or Pansy.

It hurts Harry to realise that he’s not included in that rarefied group. The closest he’s ever come to breaking Draco’s walls was last year, when they’d both been stationed in Gwynedd. The Muggle papers had reported an afranc sighting (which was, in actuality, an illegally sold Ramora), leading to a messy investigation that spanned international borders. When the poachers were captured, Harry and Draco had splintered from the rest of the team, celebrate their victory by scaling Clogwyn Du’r Arddu and topping off the night in a quiet, Muggle pub.

The fire was low and the beer had warmed Harry’s belly, casting everything in a fuzzy glow. Draco was chattering with excitement until he caught sight of Harry’s hand. The jagged edge of a rocky outcropping had pierced Harry’s glove; his skin was an angry red (and yes, a mite swollen, but it was hardly the end of the world). _“I’ve survived much worse,”_ Harry jokingly said.

That earned him an eye-roll and exasperated sigh. Draco cast a healing charm as his fingers soothed over the raw edges. The familiarity of Draco’s magic flowed, sophisticated and cool, filling the space around them. It’s touch made Harry’s skin prickle; his breath hitched, and his own magic reached out in response. Draco’s eyes turned a stormy grey as Harry shifted closer, those pouty lips parted in invitation, the long lines of his throat working heavily as he swallowed.

The moment was lost, however, when the other team members came barging into the pub. Which was not _that_ surprising, given it was the only pub in town. Whatever transpired between them was lost, however, and when they returned to London Draco was even more standoffish than usual.

“I’m fine. Nothing that a little Pepper-Up couldn’t take care of,” Draco says in a tone that indicates the subject is closed. “Are you going to do it, by the way?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Harry frowns; Draco usually seems blasé about anything that has to do with Harry’s personal life. “I’m not really ready to put my love life out there for the public, you know? Even if I’m Polyjuiced. With my luck, the potion will wear off, and everyone will know all the embarrassing things about me. Beyond what’s been written, of course. Then the _Prophet_ will have a field day, and—”

“Potter.” It comes out as a painful hiss, and when Harry looks up, Draco appears absolutely boggled. “I’m not asking about your personal life. Unlike the rest of the wizarding world, I’ve no desire to immerse myself in the sordid details of your dating habits, 24-7.  I want to know if you’re going to speak to Dawlish about our idea. Regarding the Davidson case.”

 _Oh._ “Yeah, definitely. It’s the best way to implicate Davidson _and_ his associates. The payoff and likelihood of conviction will be greater, even if it takes a bit longer.” Harry slumps down into his chair, swiveling it around so that it faces Draco. Their desks are probably too close together, but his is in a perpetual state of disorganisation and Draco’s never been able to find anything on it. So he’s resorted to taking the paperwork from Harry’s, placing it in neat, colour-coded folders on his, and they’ve become pretty much conjoined at this point. Just one big, happy desk.

“It’s not really _our_ idea, Draco. It’s yours—like the four previous ones you had me approach Dawlish with.” Harry spins around until he completes a full circle. “I still feel like you should be the one asking. Not that I mind, but your ideas are brilliant, and you should get the credit.”

Draco shrugs, but Harry can see that his mouth has settled into an unhappy line. “I do get credit. Our solve rate is the highest of any Auror team. And as much as I detest saying this out loud—and will forever deny it, should it ever get out—I like being teamed up with you.”

“You do?” Harry asks, unable to keep from beaming.

“Yes. If the Saviour can’t get my admittedly superior strategies greenlit, who can?”

The response takes some of the shine off Harry’s cheer, until he sees the corners of Draco’s lip quirking. “All joking aside, you should ask.”

Draco waves a hand as if to brush Harry off. “I tried that, if you remember. With the Bourequat murders? They didn’t even give it a second thought.”

Harry frowns. “That was years ago.”

“And I got the same response the time before, and the time before that. I might be a masochist, but I’m not going to jeopardise a case just because my ego can’t handle a misplaced credit.”

“Draco…”

Draco flicks his wand, causing Harry’s chair to swivel so it’s facing the desk and away from his tired expression. “We are _not_ having this conversation again. Can you finish your reports so we can request a search warrant from the magistrate? Maybe some time today?”

Harry sighs as he hears the scratching of Draco’s quill. “What’s the rush?” he grumbles, digging through his papers. “Do you have big plans for tonight, or something?”

The scratching stops. “Actually, I do.”

Harry uses the time it takes for Draco to resume his writing to catch his breath. He’s always assumed that Draco leads a fairly active dating life. He’s caught Draco several times (when he’s had to make a Floo-call for work reasons, of course), dressed in a pair of well-tailored trousers and a button-down that’s hardly the type of clothing people lounge around at home in. But as much as he’d like to be the type of friend with whom Draco can talk about anything, Harry has his limits. His own love life is bollocks, and the almost/could’ve/would’ve that they have means there’s a chest monster that resents it.

Still, Draco could be doing something else. Like reorganising his record collection. Or donating his time to charity.

“Hot date?”

“Perhaps. If all goes well.”

Harry catches the small, wistful smile out of the corner of his eye. “Anyone I know?” he asks. Because. Reasons.

“Potter…” Draco sighs, sounding put out.

“Okay, okay.” Harry pulls out the form and begins jotting down the information required. It’s painstaking work but it helps to keep him occupied, directing his thoughts into things more productive and much less Malfoy-ish.

It works, at least for a while. Until it’s time to go home, and he’s sitting in front of the telly, comfortable and safe, but unbearably lonely. Draco’s not the only one with plans; Ron and Hermione are spending much of their free time reading _What to Expect_ books and transforming the spare room into a nursery, while Ginny’s on the road with the Harpies. Dean’s at an art installation opening in Milan, while Seamus is watching over their two babies.

Harry doesn’t want to _date,_ per se, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want someone in his life. The thoughts of a traditional family are a thing of the past, but there’s still a part of him that longs to grow old with someone by his side. Someone to share quiet dinners at home, or enjoy the holidays, or travel. He wants to turn over in the middle of the night and breathe in the comfort of his partner’s scent and bask in the solace and solidity of their shape and warmth.

Armed with these thoughts—and half a bottle of Ogden’s—he trudges over to the Floo.

He throws the powder in and steps back as the Floo roars to life. “Hermione?” he blinks.

“Harry?” Hermione stifles a yawn and crinkles her nose. “What’s that smell?”

Harry waves the bottle in his hand. “Probably this.” He looks down at his shirt, frowning at a stain. “And maybe some leftover curry.”

“Better that than a black eye and a headline,” Hermione teases. “Enjoying your time to yourself?”

“Yeah.” He is, and he’s not. Even though he’d be happy to shun the limelight for the rest of his life, he doesn’t want to live it like this. “I’ve been thinking about that dating game. The one you and Ron were talking about at lunch?”

Hermione’s face is hopeful and expectant, and it mirrors the butterflies that have suddenly cropped up in Harry’s chest. “Yes?”

“So, _if_ I were to do it, I’d also be Glamoured?”

“Polyjuiced. And yes. Your identity would only be revealed if you and your date were interested in pursuing something outside of the game.”

“My privacy—” Harry begins, his voice pained.

“A temporary intrusion. But if things work out, it might be a small price to pay for someone who could make all the difference in your life.”

Harry takes a look around at the space around him. It’s filled with mementos and accolades, paraphernalia and keepsakes, and not much else.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Let’s do this.”

 **❤️** **XOXO** **❤️**

“WELCOME TO _THE PERFECT MATCH!_ The game where personality counts, and attraction is more than skin-deep. Who’s our lucky bachelor this week, Geoff?”

“Well, Graham, we have with us a _very special_ contestant. Coming to us by way of London, please give a warm, _Perfect_ _Match_ welcome to Mr Henry Popper!”

Harry winces as several lights sweep the room in time with his arrival. He’s grateful that both his nom de guerre and Polyjuiced form are similar enough to his real appearance; the whole experience is a bit nerve-wracking, as it is. He settles into a comfortable chair that’s set across from a long couch, rubbing the palms of his hands along the top of his jeans as the host casts a _Sonorous._ “Thanks, Graham. I’m excited to be here.”

Graham takes residence in a chair that’s slightly taller than the rest, optimally positioned between Harry and the seating for the other three contestants. He crosses one leg over the other as his hazel eyes twinkle with excitement. “We have three eligible bachelors who are very eager to meet you, Henry. But before we get started, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

“Well…” Harry hesitates; he’s been told he would need to answer certain questions in advance, but it’s one thing to practise in front of Ron, and quite another when it’s in front of a live, studio audience. “I guess you could say I’m a bit of a thrill-seeker. I love the outdoors; travelling; playing Quidditch. I’d love to share these things with someone special. Unfortunately, I don’t have as much time to indulge in them as I’d like, because my job as an—”

An annoying buzz fills the studio. Harry stops in surprise as several members of the audience tug at their ears.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Henry,” Graham says with a smile once the noise ceases. “You might need to rephrase that. You see, if you say something that’s a big clue as to your identity, you’ll trigger a _Muffliato.”_

A blush suffuses Harry’s cheeks. “Quite right. Erm...so, my work involves unpredictable hours, and at times, risky activities or travel. So trust would need to be an important part of the relationship—in any relationship, really. But for me, especially so.”

“How fascinating! And so very mysterious! Well, I know that the candidates, as well as our lovely audience, are eager to start. Is there anything else you’d like them to know?”

“Just that I’m excited to meet them, and that I love the idea of making a connection without any preconceived notions. I haven’t had many opportunities to do so in my life—for, erm, various reasons—so this is amazing to me.”

“Fantastic, Henry! Well, with that, let’s get the show on the road, shall we?” Graham and Harry turn towards the side of the stage, where Harry’s mystery man is waiting. “Let’s meet our contestants, Geoff!”

“Righto, Graham!” Geoff’s voice booms through the room, as cheery and perky as ever. Harry stares as three men enter and make their way onto the couch, single file. “Our first contestant is Tolliver Wuld. Tolliver enjoys sports, flying, and friendly competition, and values hard work and determination. Say ‘hello’ to Henry, Tolliver!”

“‘Lo, Henry! Nice to meet you!” Tolliver says in greeting as he takes a seat. He’s wearing a stylish jumper and a pair of jeans that are worn at the knees, his legs spread slightly apart.

There’s a natural confidence about him that invites respect. “Hey, Tolliver,” Harry grins, warming to him instantly.

“And our next contestant is Tony Silverstein! Tony likes quiet mornings reading; classic Muggle cinema; and Sunday brunches while sharing a crossword puzzle. Everyone, give a big, _Perfect Match_ welcome, to Tony!”

“Hi, Henry. I looking forward to learning more about you.” Tony’s soft-spoken and his words considered. Even the way he’s dressed seems well thought out, in a pair of trousers that aren’t too formal and a chambray shirt.

Harry waves and returns Tony’s greeting. “Thanks, Tony. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Aww, everyone’s already getting along so famously.” Graham presses his hand to his chest dramatically. “But we still have one more. Last, but not least, keep your applause going for Derek Malloy! Derek’s looking for someone with the mind of Oscar Wilde; the body of Viktor Krum; and the sangfroid of Harry Potter.” Graham looks up from his card. “Well, who isn’t? If you find him, Derek, be sure to send him my way.”

Derek graces him with an indulgent smile as the audience laughs. “Finders, keepers, Graham,” he says with a drawl that does _things_ to Harry’s heart. He turns slightly, his light blue eyes landing on Harry. “Hello, Henry.”

The drawl somehow turns into a purr, and suddenly, Harry finds it hard to breathe. All three contestants _look_ the same. They’re attractive, with light-brown, slightly wavy hair; light blue eyes; high cheekbones; and lean and toned physiques. But Derek is different, somehow. His trousers fit him like a second skin, showing off a pair of long legs and a deliciously rounded arse to their best advantage. He wears a waistcoat over a Muggle button-down that accentuates his narrow waist and the strength of his forearms. When he seats himself next to Tony, the rest of the contestants move over to give him space, almost instinctively. Derek leans back, straightens his cuffs, crosses his legs, and looks at Harry with a smile that’s practically sinful.

Harry discovers that he’s actually _excited_ about the whole situation, as strange as it seems. “Hi…” The words die in his throat. Harry swallows. “Hey,” he tries again.

Graham pulls out a stack of cards and chuckles. “You’ll have to do better than that, Henry. Communication is the key to any successful relationship.” He turns to the camera and winks. “Don’t forget; you and the winner will go on two dates of your choosing. All expenses paid _,_ of course. We’ll meet back here in a week’s time to see if you’ve made—”

“—THE PERFECT MATCH!” the audience finishes amidst a riot of hoots and hollers.

“Now, Henry; I have in my hand three cards. Two of them contain questions that were randomly chosen from our database. The third is one that you wanted to ask each of our three contestants. We’ll give each one a chance to answer. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says gamely. He turns to his prospective dates, all of whom are watching him with varying degrees of expectancy, and gives them what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Good luck to you all. And I look forward to knowing you better.”

He looks down at the first card, blinking as the words appear in calligraphic script. “Oh. If you could be any magical beast, what would you choose, and why?”

“Oh, goody! I can’t wait to hear everyone’s response,” Graham says with an overly-wide smile. “Let’s mix this up, shall we? Tony; why don’t you answer first?”

Tony shifts, as if caught unawares by the prospect of starting everything off. His face goes blank for a second, his brow furrowing in thought. “An Abraxan,” he answers as the lines in his face relax. “Horses embody strength and speed; many cultures consider them symbols of enlightenment and healing. Abraxans, in particular, have a unique positivity since they’re related to Patronuses.” His smile grows, and the way it lights up his face makes him instantly handsome. “Actually, it’s quite a fitting choice, since I work as a—”

“Ah hah hah,” Graham mouths, wagging his finger as the _Muffliato_ starts. Several seconds pass by as Tony sits there with a rueful expression. “It’s _so hard,_ I know,” Graham continues once the spell finishes. “But remember; try to keep any identifying information from popping up in your answers. Our poor censors are definitely earning their paycheque today!” He waves to the group of young wizards and witches who sit in a booth to the right. Several of them look up from their monitors and wave back sheepishly. “Next...” Graham dramatically looks back and forth between Tolliver and Derek, then pounces. “Derek; your turn. Same question.”

Even though Graham is the one directing the flow of questions, Derek angles his body so he’s facing Harry directly. “I grew up, surrounded by animals. In fact, my family was famed for breeding a particular species of bird.” Derek keeps his words measured, but unlike Tony, it occurs more naturally, as if he’s used to weighing his responses in his life. Graham, on the other hand, looks sorely disappointed that the _Muffliato_ hasn’t started up again. “But the answer for me is, without a doubt, a dragon. A dragon has lots of admirable qualities—power, the gift of flight, magic, and history, to name a few. But dragons also symbolise the ability to change. To grow into one’s potential, as evidenced by their evolution from an egg to adulthood.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Harry says. “Great answer.”

Derek barely has a chance to grace Harry’s comment with a nod before Graham moves on to Tolliver. “Mr Wuld; now’s your chance. Can you top Mr Malloy’s response?”

Tolliver lets out a boisterous laugh. It’s unrestrained and instantly infectious, and Harry finds himself drawn to Tolliver’s easygoing charm. “I can only be who I am, Graham. I’ve no desire to “top” Derek; I’d rather that Henry sees me as the best choice. Besides, I’m much more of a bottom,” he finishes, sliding Harry a lewd wink.

Graham clears his throat. “Now, now Mr Wuld. _Some_ things are left better to the imagination. Or, at least, until the actual date.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Harry grins. Tolliver smiles back, in a way that’s absolutely delicious. “And I like your position. You’ll find that on most things, I’m very flexible.” Tony watches the repartee with an open mouth, while Derek frowns, appearing a bit put out.

“We still haven’t heard your answer, Mr. Wuld,” Graham prompts. “Unless you’d like to pass?”

“My apologies.  The answer is a lion. Powerful, courageous, and bold.”

“Three excellent answers,” Graham concludes. “You have a favourite yet, Henry?”

“Not yet, Graham. In fact, I think it’s made my decision even harder. As you mentioned, they’re all brilliant responses.”

Graham gestures towards Tolliver, Tony, and Derek. “Would you like a shot at answering the question yourself? So they may have something to think about?”

Harry bites his lip. “Actually, I’d prefer to keep the answer to myself for now. It’s not that I don’t have one—I do. But it’s also something that’s intensely personal, and I’d like to share it when there’s not a bunch of cameras and several hundred thousand viewers watching me.”

“My, my. Curiouser and curiouser, as they say. Well then, Henry, should we move on to the next question?”

“Sure.” Harry looks at the card and winces. “Wow. Okay. And apologies in advance.”

Graham’s smile grows even larger as he peers over at the card. “It’s a _great_ question, Henry. One of my favourites. Of course, I’m not the one who has to answer. Let’s start with Tolliver this time, shall we?”

Tolliver’s eyes light up at the challenge. “I’m ready. Hit me with it.”

“The question is a two-parter: What is your best quality? What is your worst?” Harry puts down the card. “In either order.”

“Wow.” Tolliver huffs out a laugh. “Can I try the magical creature one again? Let’s see…” He leans forward with his elbow on his knee and his chin in hand. “So, I’ll start with my worst. I can be demanding of others, but I think it’s because I expect the best from myself. It’s also something that’s necessary for my job, but I’m _not_ about to set off that _Muffliato_ , so that’s all I’m going to say.”

“What about the best?” asks Harry.

“Even though I can be hard on myself and others, I’m someone who likes to have fun. My partner’s happiness is of great importance to me, and I’ll always make sure to make it a priority in our relationship.” He sits up, his eyes dancing with warmth and mirth. “Think that’d be something you’re interested in, Henry?”

“Definitely,” Harry says softly.

“Before the two of you start hunting for a flat together, let’s see what Mr Silverstein has to say,” Graham says, interrupting.

“I’ll flip it around, since I like to start with the positive,” Tony smiles. His hands are clasped in front of him, and unlike the previous question, he seems on comfortable ground. “I value integrity, and will always be honest with you when asked. I’d never set out to hurt your feelings, but I think it’s better to know the truth than live in denial.

“When it comes to my worst quality, I’d have to say it’s my perfectionism. Mostly towards myself—but it does spill out occasionally into my work, and what I expect from others. I’m working on it, though. Learning to accept that life and love aren’t flawless, and that sometimes, it’s those very imperfections that make it special.”

Harry nods in sympathy. “Acceptance of my limitations is something that took a long time for me to achieve. Even now, I’m constantly revisiting my own expectations, as well as those of others. So I relate with this, more than you know.” It’s a sobering thought, and one that brings down the energy of the room but in Harry’s mind, it’s worth it. He needs someone who respects his frailties and supports who he is. Not who others presume.

Such introspection must not be great for ratings, however, because Graham quickly poses the question to Derek. “Mr Malloy; what is your response?”

Some of the seductive confidence slips from Derek’s face. “I’ll start with my greatest weakness first, Graham, because the second part of my answer is directly related.” He looks at Harry, his chin tilted up. “I’m easily influenced. I won’t even say ‘gullible,’ because it goes beyond that.” Derek’s face flushes, the colour spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “My lack of questioning authority, of employing critical thinking. It’s not something I’m guilty of much anymore, but the choices of my youth still haunt me today.”

The raw admission tugs at something deep within. “What of your strengths, Derek?” Harry prompts quietly.

Derek’s blue eyes bore through him, vaguely reminding Harry of someone familiar. “I’m a survivor, Henry. I know that might not seem romantic, but it required me to break through the conventions of my past. I had to look at the things that were wrong—the things that didn’t work, and try things that might. I had to accept that I might fail, and am constantly re-evaluating who and where I am, and how I might better myself.”

He looks down as a hush falls over the audience. Even Graham seems curious, his typical snarky response withheld. “I wish I could say something like _‘I’d do anything to hang the moon for you, Henry.’_ And maybe I will. But I’ve learned that any relationship is doomed to failure if one can’t live with the idea of themselves. Thus, my seemingly selfish answer.”

Something in Derek’s voice makes Harry want to know more. He probably shouldn’t be attracted to someone who sounds like they’ve had a painful past. This whole dating show experiment is a long shot to begin with, and he really should be going into it with the idea of meeting someone cool. Someone fun, in the hopes of falling in like, and maybe even, possibly, love.

Harry doesn’t need any additional baggage. Merlin knows, he has enough for them both.

“Earth to Henry.” Graham waves his hand in front of Harry’s face, the relief visible when Harry turns to him with a start. “I’d love to get into a deep, philosophical discussion of Mr Malloy’s answer, but this is only a half hour show. So shall we move on?”

“Yes. Sorry. All your answers have given me food for thought. And I really appreciate you sharing such private and personal feelings with me.” Harry takes the last card from Graham’s outstretched hand, his eyes going wide with surprise. “Oh! But…” He looks at Graham for confirmation. “This wasn’t the question I submitted.”

Graham leans over to peer at the question on the card. There’s a small asterisk at the end that he eventually spots, causing him to cast a _Silencio._

“Producer’s choice,” he whispers in Harry’s ear. “You probably submitted several questions, yeah?” When Harry nods, he continues. “They might have felt that your top choice was too similar in nature to the others that were selected. They need a variety—you know, for entertainment value. Or, there may have been a similar one that was asked on a previous episode.” He taps the card with his wand. “You think you can make do with what’s on there?”

“Yeah,” says Harry, a tad disappointed. It’s not that it’s a _bad_ question; it’s just that he wonders what others might have answered to the one he originally proposed.

“Let’s wrap this up, then, shall we?” Graham says, cancelling the _Silencio._ “So, Henry; what’s your question for these three men? Last chance to get to know something about them before you make your choice!”

“What’s more important? Being rich, or being happy?” Harry recites. He hands the card back to Graham, trying to hide his moue of distaste.

“Ah, Henry, throwing in a twist! Who hasn’t answered first? Mr Malloy. If you please?”

“Having had both—and experienced the loss of each-the answer is ‘love’. Unequivocally,”  Derek answers without hesitation.

The other two gentlemen give their answers as well, but in truth, Harry’s stopped listening. He doesn’t like the question, because even if someone is as honest as Tony professes to be, he’d bet that no one would ever respond with the answer of ‘money’.

The thing is, it’s a fairly clear cut decision. Tony’s the first one he’s crossed of his list. He seems decent and steadfast, and considered and kind, and is definitely the kind of guy who you’d want in your corner. He’s the kind of person who’d help you find the best solution to your problem—with unflinching honesty, if he had to. But Harry’s already got plenty of friends who fulfill that role in his life, and it’s not what he’s here for.

Wuld, on the other hand...Tolliver is bold and open, and athletic and sunny and commanding. He’s got a stubborn charm all his own—and if he’d had gone to Hogwarts, Harry’s sure Tolliver would have been sorted into Gryffindor alongside him.

There’s something about Derek that digs under Harry’s skin. He moves with a casual grace that makes his body seem _different_ from the rest, and there’s no denying that his posh drawl and sensual lips—the same lips that Tony and Tolliver wear—makes Harry want to see what they feel like when parted under his tongue. But there’s also a sadness that seems to simmer beneath the surface. It’s intriguing. And, along with his comments on bad choices and regret, makes him wonder if perhaps Derek is a bit fractured on the inside, too.

So it’s not much of a surprise, when the rounds of questions are finished and Harry takes his place next to Graham, that he’s quite certain of his choice.

“Well, Henry. You’ve had a chance to meet our three amazing bachelors. Have any of them sparked an interest to take things further?”

Harry turns and addresses Tolliver, Tony, and Derek as a group. “I have. You’re far braver than I for sharing yourself so openly. I honestly feel that if we were to meet under different circumstances, we’d all be friends.”

Graham puts his arm on Harry. “Henry this is a dating game for _couples._ I need the name of the _one_ man who will continue on to the next round.”

Harry puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough. In that case...Derek Malloy, I would be honoured if you would be my date.”

The second the words come tumbling out, he’s filled with a nervous anticipation. It eases, however, when Derek looks up, his eyes wide with surprise as a genuine smile lights up his face.

**❤️XOXO❤️**

“I’m not sure what to suggest, Hermione. How do I pick a place when I know nothing about Derek aside from the fact that he likes dragons, seems a bit hard on himself, and places happiness above wealth?”

It’s already started to snow, the flakes not yet heavy and wet, but sticky enough to accumulate between their boots and the pavement. “Well, what do you usually do on your dates?”

“Go to fancy French restaurants and dodge pesky reporters who hide in the corners?”

Hermione laughs as she lowers her hat and swipes at the precipitation that’s gathered on her cheeks. “What else? What do you like to do on your days off? With friends?”

“Hmm.” Harry huffs, watching as the exhalation forms clouds in the cold air. He gives Hermione a grateful smile after she casts an _Impervius_ on his glasses. “Hanging out at the Leaky. Playing Quidditch. Going to the cinema. Dragon taming.”

Hermione cuffs him on the arm. “Harry James Potter. I’m serious!”

“I am too,” Harry laughs. “You know that I visit Charlie with Bill twice a year.”

“Hmmm. I’m not sure pubs are the best place for a first date. There’s too much noise and distraction. Movies are out; the point is for you to get to know Derek. And although Quidditch might be exciting, it’s problematic for the same reason. You need something that’s fun...in an environment that’s comfortable for you both, and allows you the chance to converse. Preferably privately.”

“And that’s why I’ve _no_ idea what I’m going to tell the producers when they ask me tomorrow. Unless you’re okay with the idea of dragon taming.”

“Actually…” Hermione’s eyes have a faraway gaze and her lips purse in thought.

“Erm...Hermione? I was kidding. Not sure the show’s insurance will cover that kind of thing, even if Derek were up for it.”

“I know. But your love of riding dragons and flying; it’s not just the thrill and speed. They’re activities where you feel the most comfortable.” She waves her hand animatedly. “Anything about today giving you ideas?”

Harry looks down at the bags of baby bottles and cloth nappies that he’s carrying. “Always practise safe sex? Never take it up the duff without casting the proper contraceptive spells?”

“Oh my god, Harry! No! The snow,” Hermione manages between her gasps of laughter. “Sledging!”

“Sledging! That’s brilliant! The last time I went with Ron to Blythe Hills Fields—”

“—the two of you required plenty of Skele-Gro and Bruise Removal paste. Maybe something a little less life-threatening. Like Greenwich Park or Primrose Hill?”

“Yeah. It’s perfect. I’ll owl the show when I get home.” The smell of smoke, dark and deep, wafts from the corner where a vendor is selling a bag of roasted chestnuts to a couple. Harry steals a glance at a clock in a nearby shop’s window; he’s promised Ron that he would keep Hermione out of their flat, so Ron can put some finishing touches on the nursery. “Erm...do you need some more things for the baby? Like another one of those sling things?”

Hermione gives him a look that’s a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “I only have one set of arms, Harry. Just how long were you supposed to keep me occupied?”

“Another fifteen minutes,” Harry confesses guiltily.

“If I buy one more thing, there won’t be room for the baby in that nursery. What if we just share a bag of chestnuts, enjoy the snowfall, and walk to the second Apparition point instead?”

Harry lets out a relieved sigh. “You’re the best,” he says, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

They make their way to the corner; even at a distance, the chestnuts look perfect and plump as they sit, roasting in the brazier. Harry pulls off a mitten, his mouth watering in anticipation as he holds its woolen edge in his teeth. The cold makes his fingers clumsy as he rummages around his pockets for change, and he ends up dropping it onto the ground when the man in front of him turns, his grey eyes widening in recognition.

“Malfoy?”

A sharp, impatient and unequivocally feminine voice interrupts Draco’s response. “And hello to you too, Harry. I’m fine; thanks for asking.”

Harry turns to the woman at Draco’s side. Her dark eyes narrow further, red lips thinned and gaze appraising.

“Hello, Pansy; Draco. It’s good to see you both. Harry and I are doing well. How lovely of you to ask.” Hermione’s gaze is as steely as anything Pansy has to offer. Despite the fact that Harry and Draco have since mended fences, Hermione’s never quite forgiven Pansy for her willingness to surrender Harry during the last days of the War.

Draco looks at Harry and shrugs as the two women continue their standoff, then tilts the open bag of chestnuts in his hand in invitation. They’re warm, wrapped up in the confines of the brown paper bag, and Harry gladly takes one and pops it in his mouth.

The look Pansy gives Harry when he lets out an appreciative moan is priceless. “Did you just take food from Draco and live to tell about it?”

“We always share,” Harry says, his mouth half-full.

“Someone has to feed you,” Draco says, handing Harry another. “I swear, given the number of times you skip your meals…”

“‘Fess up,” Harry grins. “You care.”

“We’re _partners_. I care about keeping you healthy and alive. Only because it’ll keep _me_ that way as well.”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Honestly; sometimes the two of you are just like an old married couple. Just without the fucking.”

An image floats into Harry’s mind that’s both indecent and inconvenient.

Hermione clears her throat. She points to the large, glossy bags that dangle from Draco’s arms. “How are you coming along with your Christmas shopping, Draco?”

“Draco’s got a hot date,” Pansy interrupts. “Believe me, this is one gift the lucky guy will _not_ want to return.” She snickers as Draco shoots her a baleful look.

“I’m placing you on top of the ‘naughty list’, Pansy,” he hisses.

“Darling. You should know by now that ‘naughty’ and ‘top’ are exactly where I belong.”

“Harry’s got a hot date, too,” Hermione chimes in as Harry colours with embarrassment.

Draco lowers the bag of nuts until it hangs limply at his side. “Doesn’t he always?” The mood around them turns awkward and as cool as the December air, and just like that, the remnants of the chestnut, once flavourful and meaty, turns dry in Harry’s mouth.

**❤️XOXO❤️**

“You know, I should be angrier at you for this,” Derek drawls.

 _Shit._ It’s only fifteen minutes into their date, and Derek’s already unhappy.

“We could do something else,” Harry tries. He racks his brain for ideas—something close that doesn’t require reservations, and will allow for intimate conversation, and all those things that Hermione suggested.

“Maybe we could go to Hyde Park and see the Winter Wonderland,” he begins. “It’s a bit kitschy, but there’s lots to see and do…” His face flames as he scrubs his face. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I had to plan something like this. I guess I’m a bit rusty.”

Derek’s face softens as he twines his arm around Harry’s. “Don’t worry. I think that sledging is the perfect first date. I’m just sad that you can’t see the fabulous outfit I bought to tempt you into a second.”

Even though it’s said in jest, there’s an undeniable sincerity to Derek’s words. Harry feels his anxiety slipping away. The park is filled with couples and families, brightly bundled under chunky scarves and down parkas, whose ringing laughter add to the gaiety. The temperature has dipped from the previous night, coating the tree branches in thin layers of icy slick that drip off the branches and reflect the bright sun, and add a sheen and speed to the snow on the ground.

They make their way up the hill as Harry pulls the sledge behind them. When they reach the summit, the observatory looms in the background. Its brick face is imposing, solid and majestic.

Derek’s eyes light up at the sight, making their blue hue even more vivid. “Have you been inside?” He makes a distressed sound after Harry shakes his head. “You _must._ The Octagon Room was an architectural marvel for its time. And did you know that Flamsteed was given _no_ instruments to work with when he was appointed Royal Observer by the government? He and Halley were indispensable in developing what would become the precursors of our modern astronomical instruments.”

“Sounds a bit like our own Ministry,” Harry laughs.

“I’m sure,” Derek agrees. “‘Fate favours the prepared,’ and all that. But none of it could not have happened without the assistance of people like John Hooke. Who was the curator of experiments for the Royal Society—a brilliant man, by most accounts, but his shine was tarnished because of his staunch loyalty to the Royalists and his intellectual jealousy.” Derek stops to take a deep breath. The tip of his nose is pink, possibly from the cold and self-consciousness, and Harry is filled with the urge to warm it with his lips.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” Derek says, chagrined when he catches Harry’s expression. “I’m being a total swot, aren’t I?”

“You...no. I mean, yes, perhaps a little bit. But I like it,” Harry adds softly. “For a second, you reminded me of someone else.”

“Someone good, I hope?”

Harry swallows. “Very much so.” He shifts uncomfortably, and the sledge’s runners glide forward on the sloped surface until the tips butt against Derek’s leg.

Derek looks down, getting a good view of the sledge for the first time. “Wow. I’ve never seen one like that before,” he remarks, his gaze hungry.

It’s large enough for two grown men if manoeuvred in the right position. It had been a gift to Harry from the Firebolt corporation—a one-of-a-kind prototype they had considered for an expansion of their product line. It’s built for safety _and_ speed, and there’s no bigger fan of its virtues than Harry’s eight-year-old godson Teddy.

“Thanks. Erm...it wasn’t made for the public.”

“Did you make it? Or did someone custom make it for you?

Harry’s face colours. “The latter.”

The corners of Derek’s lips twitch appreciatively. “Hmmm,” he purrs as he runs his hand up and down Harry’s arm. Even though they’re bundled for warmth, the weight of it manages to pierce through the layers, sending tingles up and down Harry’s body. “I wonder who you are? A Quidditch player? Someone high up in the Ministry?” He presses closer. “A celebrity?”

“Maybe all of the above?” Harry answers breathlessly.

For some reason, Derek looks saddened by the answer. He turns his head in the direction of the Thames, where the water sparkles like shards of glass under the cold, winter sun. “Hopefully, we’ll make it past our second date and find out.”

There’s a small part of Harry that wants that as well, even if it means exposing his identity. “Let’s get through this first one,” he smiles, pointing at the sledge in invitation.

Derek makes a motion to get on, then stops. “I haven’t gone sledging since I was a child,” he confesses.

“It’s not too hard. You just hop on, and gravity does the rest.”

“I mean…” Derek blushes. “Should I be in the front or back?”

 _Oh._ Harry thinks back at how delectable Derek’s arse had looked in those fitted trousers. “Maybe with you in front, for starters,” he says, his voice a bit gruff. “Then, if you’d like, we can switch.”

“Sounds good to me.” Derek waits for Harry to climb on, then takes a careful seat in front of him. He settles in, wiggling about so that he’s snug between Harry’s legs. “I’m definitely up for switching. You’re not the only one who’s versatile,” he adds with a saucy grin, arse slotted against Harry’s crotch as Harry pushes off.

The flirtation between Harry and Tolliver was nothing compared to this. Derek’s words spur Harry’s overactive imagination and the ride certainly isn’t helping. They fly down the hill; the uneven terrain and sudden turns causing Harry’s groin to push repeatedly against Derek’s bum. Luckily, the noise of the crowd drowns out the inelegant sounds that escape Harry’s mouth.

“That was incredible,” Derek breathes when they finally slow to a stop. “Shall we do it again?”

Harry looks at Derek and then up the steep hill, and decides another run is definitely worth it. “Absolutely. Although this time, you steer.”

The situation isn’t much better. When they get to the top and it’s Harry’s turn to sit, Derek pulls Harry against his chest. His elegant hands splay around Harry’s hips and his hair brushes against Harry’s cheek, his smell comforting and overwhelmingly familiar. Harry leans back, his heart racing and mouth dry even though they haven’t started their descent.

His mind grows a bit fuzzy as Derek pushes off. The scenery whips by them as Derek crows in delight, the sledge going faster and faster. Their recklessness earns them more than their share of disapproving looks, but the rush of adrenaline and endorphins overwhelms Harry by the end, when he grabs Derek by the waist and pulls him in for a triumphant kiss.

When Harry finishes, Derek’s mouth is parted in surprise. But just as Harry’s wondering whether he’s horribly misread the cues, Derek responds with brilliant enthusiasm. His hands twine along the nape of Harry’s neck and he pulls Harry back in, the warmth of his breath sweet with anticipation as he returns the kiss.

It’s the kind of kiss that poets write about. The heat spreads from the moment their lips touch—down through Harry’s chest and into his toes. It makes him want to forget about the rules and restrictions of this silly game, to dispense with the illusions, bare his identity, and throw himself into knowing all he can about Derek, right then and there.

Derek must sense his desperation, because he puts his a single wet, snow-covered finger against Harry’s mouth. “Let’s do it again.”

Unfortunately, Derek means going on yet _another_ run down the hill. They’re able to fit two more in before the sun starts its descent, bringing with it a bone-deep chill. Harry takes some comfort in the fact that they’ve taken to finishing each ride with a similar celebration. The last kiss, to Harry’s delight, also happens to contain _a lot_ of tongue.

“I really want to go on a second date with you,” Harry blurts out when they finally come up for air.

A pleased smile spreads across Derek’s face. “Then I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.”

“There’s no one else?” Harry asks with a flirty grin. “No one I’ll have to fight off for a chance with you?”

Derek sighs. He steps back slightly, and already, Harry feels the loss. “There was, once. Someone who I thought I might have had a chance with.”

An angry, protective feeling wells up inside of Harry. “It didn’t work out?”

Derek shakes his head. “We’re co-workers. I consider him my friend. Which, honestly, is more than I could have hoped for.”  

Harry removes his glove. He thumbs the angle of Derek’s jaw, willing the hurt away. “That’s the worst. Believe me; I know.”

“Anyway, the answer to your question is ‘no’,” Derek says brightly as he leans into Harry’s palm.

“Good,” Harry whispers. He slants his mouth over Derek’s; the chapped lips soften under the touch, and he tastes the sharpness of the winter air melt under his tongue. He deepens it further, determined to kiss away any memories of the arsehole Derek still carries a torch for.

**❤️XOXO❤️**

In Harry’s opinion, the producers of _The Perfect Match_ should be grateful that his last date with Derek hadn’t cost them a single Knut. Not even for the cups of hot cocoa and two pain au chocolats he and Derek shared. Or, more accurately, that _Derek_ had consumed. With the exception of the little bit that had collected along the corner of his bottom lip. Which Harry just _had_ to lick clean.

So when it comes time for their second date, it’s not a surprise that Harry’s a bit on edge. A week’s passed, and the uncertainty and his nerves have taken over again. It doesn’t help that Draco’s face seems to be emblazoned with a soppy expression in the interim. He smiles when Harry hands him paperwork; goes home on time instead of lingering after hours; and turns down an invitation to the Leaky for the first time since Harry can ever remember. The change in behaviour sparks Harry’s curiosity—as a supportive friend, of course—and he wonders as to the cause of Draco’s sudden cheeriness. It might have something to do with his date, the one that Pansy had alluded to. But when Harry tries to elicit more information about the bloke, Draco effectively shuts him down with a simple, “It’s no one that you know, Potter.”

The thought that Draco is making strides in his own love life when Harry doesn’t even know Derek’s real name is making him anxious. It’s a feeling that heightens when he Apparates to their meeting point after being Polyjuiced. He finds himself standing in front of a restaurant called _L’Accord Parfait_. The menu in the window looks charming; it’s printed on thick, yellow stock, and the words are so very, very French, causing Harry to have flashbacks of his last, unsuccessful experience with French cuisine.

His mouth must be drawn into a tight line, because Derek’s expression falters once he sees Harry.

“Henry?” Derek peeps up from under his lashes and purses his lips, which causes his cheeks to hollow further. “I thought we could get supper, and then walk around the market.” He gestures to the scene behind him; there are market stalls filled with nuts and cheeses, and others with hand-crafted items, bursting at their worn-wood edges with holiday cheer. It’s not quite dark enough for the fairy lights which adorn the lamp posts to start to glow, but the garlands of Norway spruce that wrap around their lengths are festive, as is their sharp, pine scent.

“I’d like that,” Harry says. He takes another look at the centre of the square. The aroma of roasted meat wafts from somewhere nearby, and one of the vendors is adding cinnamon sticks, cloves, and orange rind to a slowly-bubbling cauldron of mulled cider.

Derek hesitates before taking Harry’s hand and Harry gives Derek a reassuring squeeze in response. Their hands fit perfectly; Derek’s longer, more slender fingers entwine comfortably with Harry’s own, and both men breathe a silent sigh of relief as the tension eases.

Derek opens the door to the restaurant, holding it for Harry. The interior is dimly lit and filled with plain white linens and dark woods. They wait briefly as the hostess comes up to greet them. Derek converses with her in rapid, fluent French, and signals towards a side room where there’s an impressive stone hearth and a charming table tucked away in the corner.

She nods, smiling as she takes them there. When they arrive, there’s a small card that says _réservé_ on the center of the table top. Derek pulls out a chair and helps Harry into his seat. It’s old-fashioned, but romantic, and Harry can’t help but be a bit charmed.

There are several other diners in the restaurant, but most are seated in the main dining area, and the ones who are in the side room are far enough away that it almost feels as if they have the entire place to themselves. The hostess sets down a menu in front of Harry; it’s long and narrow, like the galley that leads from the rear to the kitchen, and where the clinking of pots and pans can be heard in the background. It’s homey and charming, and everything that La Vache Tachetée is not.

Harry holds the menu close and squints at the offerings. Even though it’s decoded in English underneath, the descriptions read nothing like _‘Irish sausage served with mashed potato and carrots and topped in an onion gravy.’_ Instead, they say _‘Chicken en cocotte with haricot vert and wild chanterelles in red wine.’_

Derek lays a gentle hand on his wrist. “Everything sounds so stuffy and dramatic in French. Even the loo,” he smiles. “That, for instance, is ‘Potted chicken with green beans and mushrooms.’ It’s hearty and the furthest thing from pretentious.”

Harry looks down at the rest of the menu and narrows his choices to three dishes that sound vaguely familiar. “Just let me know if I order anything crazy like fried lard, okay?”

Derek holds his hand to his heart. “I promise; no flash-fried pig fat shall set foot on this table. I can also suggest certain wines or beer that would pair well with your selections.”

“They serve beer?” Harry’s grin grows broader.

“They do. In fact, many of my favourite bistros now offer a beer selection that’s nearly as extensive as their wine list. And here’s a tip: in general, you can’t go wrong with a pale ale. It cuts through the fat and acid of most main courses, and balances the palate.”

They place their orders. Harry decides on the lentil salad as a starter, and blanquette de veau for his main course. Derek chooses duck pâté en croûte and a pan-fried turbot. Like Harry, he also orders a beer. They sit, making pleasant conversation, and the time passes quickly until their waiter brings out the appetisers.

“So have you ever done anything like this before? The dating game thing?” Derek asks as he cuts through his pastry. The golden layers crunch under the blunt edge of the knife, blending with the duck fat and the stripe of cranberry gelee that decorates the bottom of his plate.

“Entering a show to be judged by several suitors _and_ subject myself to public humiliation in the process? I’ve done some wild things in my life, but nothing like this...at least, not willingly. I’ve my good friends to thank for all of it,” Harry says with a rueful laugh.

“As do I. They were tired of me complaining about my prospects. Or, the lack thereof.”

The information takes Harry by surprise. Even though he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Derek looks like, he knows that he’ll find Derek physically appealing based on the show’s selection process. And although it’s only been an hour into their second date, Derek has shown himself to be sophisticated, charming, considerate, and spontaneous, with a definite devilish streak. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a brilliant kisser.

“Long hours?” Harry guesses.

Derek takes a sudden interest in his pâté. “Partly. When I finished secondary, it took me a long time to find myself—to discover what I wanted to do with my life, and who I wanted to be. I have a small circle of friends who’ve helped me along the way. But it _is_ small. Some of it is by choice; some, by circumstance. But my small sphere of influence makes meeting potential partners tricky.”

“This entire process is a bit out of character for me as well,” Harry admits. “Despite what some people think, I value my privacy greatly.” He finishes the last forkful of his salad and sips his beer, the woody, fruity flavour lingering on his palate with a hint of spice. “I’ve a lot of people in my life. I’m lucky, in that respect, considering where I started.”

“How so?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “When I was young, I felt...unloved. Alone. Since then, I’ve met so many people who’ve supported me, and many more who’ve become my friends. But—like you—there are only a handful who I trust implicitly.”

The flames from the fire behind them cast dancing shadows across the linens, and the steam from the sap crackles and pops. “It’s almost as if we’re living our lives in reverse,” Derek murmurs. “One of my problems when I was younger was that I trusted _too_ much. I’ve learned to be more cautious and selective in my later years. For the better.” Derek divides the last portion of his appetiser in two, and places one half onto a bread plate, handing it to Harry. “If you’re okay with duck fat instead of pork, you must try the pâté. It’s absolutely divine.”

The fleur-de-lis which decorates the surface of the pastry is almost too beautiful to eat. Harry bites down tentatively, and moans when the flavour of the pâté bursts onto his tongue. It’s smooth and dark, and punctuated with hints of fennel and nutmeg.

“That’s incredible.” His expression must be almost sinful, because Derek’s eyes darken as he greedily gauges Harry’s response.

No sooner were their plates clean before their waiter came over, bringing two champagne goblets filled with small scoops of sorbet and calvados. _“Le Trou Normand._ A digestif, compliments of the chef.”

Harry nods his thanks and takes a tentative spoonful. The brandy shoots down to his belly, warming his gut while the apple-flavoured ice awakens his mouth. His mind is buzzing, reeling with pleasure from the food and company.

It also makes him bold in his questioning. “So what are you looking for in a relationship? Something lowkey, or something serious?”

Derek takes a deep breath. He pushes the sorbet to the side, the small, half-moon balls sloshing around in the liquid. “It depends on the person, I suppose. I’ve had my share of no-strings-attached relationships. They were fun, and satisfying in their own way. But when I think of my parents, of the kind of love that they shared with one another…” His voice trails off, and he looks a little helpless. “I might have idealised many things in my childhood, but that was not one of them. I can only hope that I find someone to share my life with who means that much to me, and vice versa.”

A small pot of veal bathed in a creamy white sauce and garnished with a bouquet of herbs is placed in front of Harry. He waits as Derek is served, then toys around with the morsels of meat in thoughtful silence.

“Is it not to your liking?” Derek asks gently.

“No. It’s—” Harry gives him a small smile, and curses inwardly as he feels a lump in his throat. The glassware and dishes begin to swim in front of him, and he focuses on breathing in and out in an attempt to stop the sight. “I wish I could’ve seen my parents share that kind of love,” he gulps.

Derek puts down his fork. “Did yours divorce?”

Harry shakes his head, the hot prick of tears creeping into the corner of his eyes. “No. They loved each other very much. At least, from what I was told.” He takes a deep breath in, then lets out a long sigh. “Certain things happened that required me to stay with my aunt and uncle when I was very young. So I never really got to know my parents while I was growing up.” He places a piece of veal in his mouth, but despite the abundance of sauce, it requires several swallows before he can get it down.

“Henry. I’m so very sorry.” Derek moves over and tilts his head. He takes Harry’s hand in his and holds it resolutely.

Harry looks at his plate. “I’ve had decades to come to terms with it. But there are occasions—especially around the holidays—where it’s a bit harder to forget.”

“Sometimes the solution isn’t forgetting. Sometimes, it’s making new memories.” They sit together in silence. Derek doesn’t remove his hand, and the muted conversations of the other diners continue around them.

After several minutes, Derek looks up. Neither of them have touched their main courses for awhile. For Harry, the food looks beautiful, but it’s no longer tempting.

“Are you still hungry?” Derek asks.

“Everything’s delicious. I...I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought.”

“Me neither.” Derek gives his hand one last squeeze, then signals for the waiter. He expresses his appreciation for the meal and makes their apologies, along with an excuse for the sudden change in plans. The cheque is brought to them quickly, which Derek settles with the addition of a very generous tip.

They express their thanks and set off, the bell above the door jangling as it snicks shut. The sun has already set and the streets are aglow with twinkling lights. Some of the vendors have started to pack up their wares, while others remain open, eager to take advantage of the constant flow of shoppers.

Harry winds his scarf around his neck and pulls up his collar. He pulls Derek close until the space between them is reduced to just the thickness of their coats. “Thank you for that,” he murmurs as his hand settles against the small of Derek’s back, content to bask in his warmth. “After everything is done—if I’m lucky enough that you’d want to take this further—I promise I’ll make it through an entire meal.”

“Either that, or we can just settle on a single course.”

“Or we’ll go to a Wimpy’s. The cheapest date ever,” Harry agrees.

Derek busses Harry on the cheek. “Wait here.” He hurries to a nearby booth, talking with the plump and pleasant-faced woman behind the counter who looks like Mother Christmas, complete with a bright red jumper and flour-coated apron. She nods and smiles, plucking two small items from the trays in front of her and dropping them into a small, white bag.

Derek pays for the items and returns to Harry, wearing a smug grin.

Harry looks at the package with open curiosity. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he says archly.

“All in good time,” Derek laughs. “Come on. I want to show you something first.”

They weave their way through the crowd. Some of the earlier shoppers have left, but new ones have taken their place. Families, many with young children in tow, are conspicuously large in number, as are couples, both young and old. Several of the stalls are busy, such as the ones that sell hand-knit, woolen stockings in a variety of patterns, or wooden ornaments that are charmingly hand-painted, or other locally-crafted goods. But the majority of visitors seem to be heading towards the church and its famed gardens, where the trellis-covered trails are lit brilliantly in multi-coloured lights.

“It’s gorgeous,” Harry breathes.

“The first time my parents brought me here, I _felt_ what it was to have magic in the world. Later on, I realised that it’s not just magic as we know it. It’s the spirit of the season; what it means for everyone to share in such hope and joy together.”

They step foot through the overhang. There’s a light dusting of snow that coats the ground, looking as if someone had taken a container of icing sugar and sifted it all over. It outlines the roofs of the surrounding homes and glazes their windows, casting a halo around the candles which burn bright.

Derek’s a bit too tall to rest his head directly on Harry’s shoulder; his nose brushes against Harry’s ear while his breath curls along the line of Harry’s neck, causing Harry’s skin to prickle. “It’s almost time,” he whispers.

Harry angles his head so that his lips brush against Derek’s jaw. “Time for what?”

Derek doesn’t respond, choosing to lead Harry through the path until they find themselves in front of the church. It’s a beautiful night, and despite the abundance of lights around them, the stars still glitter from above. There’s a tree that sits darkly at the edge of the lawn. It looks to be just over ten metres tall, its branches heavy and full.

Derek points to the old clock tower high on the hill. ”In five minutes, they’ll be lighting the tree,” he explains. The murmurs from the crowd grow as a choir begins a processional down the steps of the church, lining up in three separate rows. At precisely eight o’clock, a hush falls over the crowd, stilled by the sound of a child’s voice.

The sound is otherworldly—gentle yet strong, and so pure it makes his heart weep. Its etherealness sweeps through the crowd, soaring across the air until even the bustling marketplace falls into a quiet hush. Harry feels an ache well in his throat; embarrassed, he looks up, only to discover that Derek’s eyes are also suspiciously moist.

Soon, the rest of the choir joins. The sopranos fill out the top like an angel’s flight while the basses anchor everything from below. Harry’s enraptured, as is most of the crowd. An elderly couple holds on to each other tightly; the young man to their right is weeping openly; and a child is waving her arms in time with that of the director’s. When the song is finished, there’s a growing rumble among the spectators that turns deafening as the lights turn on, and the tree sparks to life.

It’s beautiful. The tree shimmers, its shape so effervescent and brilliant Harry would swear it was the work of fairy-flies. The ornaments which adorn its branches appear to come from all over the world, in a celebration of various holidays and cultures.

 _“Merlin…”_ Harry manages, choking up a bit. “It’s perfect.”

Derek looks overwhelmed as well. “I’d forgotten. It’s far more spectacular than I remembered.” He clears his throat. “No matter what happens after tonight, I’m glad I got a chance to experience it again. With you.”

There’s so much that Harry wants to say. He’s reluctant to leave this beautiful scene, but right now his desire is clear, and he needs to let Derek know how he feels. He clasps Derek’s hand and leads him to the back, where the lawn slopes towards the side street and the crowds are far less.

Derek looks so handsome as he patiently waits for Harry to gather his thoughts. Harry knows that it’s not how Derek _truly_ looks. He could be taller, or shorter, or darker, or blonder, but it’s not his features that make him so beautiful in Harry’s eyes.

“You’re amazing,” he breathes, his thumb swiping along the fullness of Derek’s lips. “I can’t wait for the reveal so I can get to know you as you truly are.”

Derek grows quiet. “I hope that you’ll still feel that same way tomorrow, Henry.”

There’s something in the way that Derek phrases his response that almost seems like good-bye. “No matter what happens, I feel like we could be friends,” Harry says with determination. “I _know_ it.” He sees that Derek is about to argue, so he barrels forward. “Do you know that they scrapped my original question on the show? The one I was supposed to ask you all?”

Derek’s brow furrows adorably. “You mean in place of the ‘rich versus happiness’ question?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that was a rubbish question, honestly. Only a wanker would answer in the former.”

“I agree,” Harry says with a grin. “To be honest, I stopped listening after your response.”

Derek’s lips spread into a smirk. “I _am_ a hard act to follow.”

“You are. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The question I really wanted to ask was: Do you believe in love at first sight? And, to tell you the truth, I never thought that I did. I’ve seen too much in my life to believe in fairy tales, at least the sanitised versions. But from the second we met, I felt like I _knew_ you. That I’ve been waiting for this moment, almost all my life.”

Derek looks overwhelmed. “Merlin, Henry. I hope that’s true.”

Harry wraps his hands around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer. “Now that I’ve confessed a secret, it’s time for one of yours.”

Derek’s blue eyes widen. “I’m not sure—”

“What have you got in that bag?” Harry says, nudging his hand.

“Oh! That.” Derek unfolds the top. A sweet and heavenly scent fills the air. “Christmas doughnuts,” he grins. “We never had the chance to finish our pudding.”  He holds up one of the oblong confections, its golden surface covered in what appears to be a brandied glaze. His fingers brush against Harry’s lips as he places the end in his mouth, and Harry groans as the taste of candied fruit and spices explode on his tongue.

He licks at the sweetness. There’s a hitch in Derek’s breath as the tip of Harry’s tongue catches his fingers. Suddenly, they’re interrupted by a young boy who rushes by. He snickers as he waves an evergreen sprig in front of their faces that’s laden with white, round berries hanging from its leaves.

“Mistletoe! Now you have to kiss!” he shouts as his harried parents shoot Harry and Derek twin looks of apology.

Derek’s smile turns absolutely mischievous. “You heard the lad.”

“Mmm. I’d hate to ruin his fun.”

“Give the public what they want,” Derek agrees. He drops the remainder of the doughnut back in the bag and chooses to put his hands to better use, running them along Harry’s back instead. They slot their mouths together; Derek licks the sugar and spice slowly off Harry’s lips and then his tongue. They kiss, Harry’s heart bursting with happiness while the lights wink around them, from the houses and the trees and the stars above.

**❤️XOXO❤️**

Harry smooths the crease of his trousers nervously. The lights from the studio are hot, adding to the sweat that’s slowly accumulating on his brow.

“Stop fidgeting,” the makeup artist admonishes. He dabs a bit of bronzing blotting paper across Harry’s forehead. “This will all be over in several minutes.”

Hermione and Ron are sitting in the next room since their presence would make the reveal—well, less revealing. He’s glad to have their support, but as the time ticks down and his nerves ramp up, there’s a small part of him that wonders if he might have been better off without all this.

He’s used to disappointment when it comes to love. It’s worse when what he wants is tangible but mutable. He’s worried that what he’s shared with Derek might change, the shadow of his celebrity tainting the _normalness_ of it all. He finds himself irrationally jealous of _Henry._ It would gut him to have experienced this kind of happiness, only to have it snatched away.

One of the assistant producers pokes her head through the doorway. “Five minutes until we go live.”

“Almost done with Henry,” the stylist calls out. He pushes at Harry’s hands, saving his shirt from being wrinkled irreparably. “Don’t worry, mate. It’s normal to feel a bit of nerves, being on television and all. It might seem like all eyes are on you, but the public will find something else to be excited about tomorrow.” He natters on, oblivious to the real reason for Harry’s distress until the assistant producer re-joins them. She announces that it’s one minute until showtime, looks Harry over and gives the stylist a “thumbs up” of approval, then walks Harry onstage.

The set is decorated for the holidays. Tinsel and garland fill every corner, punctuated by bouquets of winter roses in an explosion of green and red and white. Derek’s already seated but he stands quickly as Harry enters, wearing a tentative smile. He’s dressed smartly, as usual, but Harry barely notices. In several minutes, the visage he’s grown to care deeply about will change, and he’ll be able to see Derek’s true self.

The audience buzzes with excitement as the producer counts down the time to start. He reaches _‘one’_ then points to Graham, who’s standing center stage as the lights sweep the room and the applause continues to build.

“Thank you, thank you! Welcome to the Revealing Episode of _The Perfect Match!_ On last week’s episode, our lucky bachelor, Henry Popper, chose to go on a date with Derek Malloy.” He steps back and turns towards Harry and Derek, with a look of surprise. “And who do I have here? You guessed it...the two gentlemen in question! For the last time...please give a big, _Perfect Match_ welcome to our lovely contestants!”

The audience’s anticipation is palpable even as the producer brings their applause down to a hush. “Hello, Henry,” Graham says warmly as he ushers Harry and Derek to the couch. Harry notes that it’s conveniently shrunk down to accommodate two. “It’s great to see you again.”

“Thanks, Graham. It’s good to be back.” Harry gives Derek a meaningful look. “I’m nervous, of course, but more than that, I’m excited.”

“So the dates went well, I take it?”

“I had an amazing time,” Harry says honestly, his heart beating faster when he sees Derek’s face flush with happiness.

“So, Derek. Tell us; where did Henry take you on your first date?”

“We went sledging in Greenwich Park.”

“That’s it? Geoff; did the producers cut back on the budget and I wasn’t aware of it?”

“No, Graham.” Geoff’s already-deep voice booms even more loudly through the _Sonorous._ “One Sickle. Same as always,” he adds as the audience laughs.

“Actually, it was perfect,” Derek hastens to respond as he gives Harry a fond grin. “I love flying, and I can’t remember the last time I’d done it on land. _And_ we capped it off with chocolate. I couldn't have wished for anything better.”

“That's all nice and well. But I'm sure what our audience really wants to know is: how was the chemistry between you both?”

“Brilliant,” Harry begins, at about the same time Derek responds with “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“So there _was_ a kiss,” Graham pounces as the audience laughs. Derek doesn’t look terribly put out by the revelation so Harry faces the audience, winks, and adds “Lots.”

“A perfect date, complete with lots of snogging. I take it that the two of you went on a second?”

“Did we ever.” Harry can’t help the fondness which lights up his face as he looks at Derek and boldly places his hand on Derek’s knee. “But it was all Derek’s doing, so it’s his story to tell.”

Graham lifts a practised brow. “The ball’s in your court, Derek. How did you top Henry’s ‘perfect’ date?”

“We went to dinner and watched a tree lighting.”

Graham looks disappointed. “How quaint. I hope, at least, it was somewhere exotic.”

“I’m afraid not,” Derek says with a shake of his head. “Salisbury, in fact. I realised that we had fun doing the simplest of things. This show’s been wonderful, but there’s so much that’s extraneous because of the circumstance. My real name isn’t Derek. This isn’t my face, or my body. I wanted to spend time with Henry—without the additional glitz and glamour. No pun intended.”

“We didn’t need it. I’d enjoy myself with Derek at a gala at Hampton Court Palace, or getting a toastie at Wimpy’s.”

“It sounds like you’re in agreement, then,” Graham says, his face turning serious. “Derek and Henry: you’ve had the opportunity to get to know one another this past week. Are you ready to take the final step? I’ll need a verbal confirmation from you both. ”

Derek looks at Harry. His face is caught somewhere between shyness and hope, and it tugs at Harry’s heart. “Yes,” Derek says.

“Absolutely. Never more ready,” Harry agrees as the audience shouts their approval. He’s lived so long with the idea that no one could possibly love him without the spectre of his past overshadowing everything they had. He’s not foolish enough to think that it _won’t_ be a factor; his name and image are depicted in schoolbooks and on banners, and he’s constantly in the papers for his work with the DMLE or because of a disgruntled ex. But he and Derek have something special. He feels it, deep in his gut, with a surety that’s almost frightening.

The production assistant steps between them and places a small phial into Harry’s and Derek’s hands.

“You have in your grasp the solution that will reveal your true identities,” Graham says ominously. “Made with the same magic as the Thief’s Downfall, it will reverse the effects of the Polyjuice in less than ten seconds. Are you ready, gentlemen?”

Harry stares at the colourless liquid. It seems so innocuous, for something that’s about to change his life. “See you on the other side,” he whispers.

Derek lifts his up in a toast. “See you, Henry.”

The audience counts in reverse as Harry and Derek tilt their phials to their lips. The liquid splashes free from the confines of its container as soon as the countdown reaches zero. It’s sharp and bitter; the taste causes Harry to squeeze his eyes shut. His body shifts, and as he tries to adjust to the pain that lances through him as his bones rearrange themselves back to their natural state, he’s unaware of the quiet that blankets the studio save for Graham’s lone gasp.

The scene in front of him blurs. Derek lengthens an inch or two in height, and his skin turns as pale as a sun-bleached shell. His hair resembles corn silk, and while Harry can’t make out the colour of Derek’s eyes, his lips look pouty and kissable. Harry reaches into his pocket and puts on his glasses. He blinks as the world comes into focus, bringing along with it the shell-shocked face of Draco Malfoy.

Derek— _Draco_ —curses under his breath. The phial slips out from his fingers, and his expression is one of utter devastation.

“Fuck me,” Harry chokes out. He barely has the chance to process the new development before somebody shouts, _“He’s not good enough for you, Harry!”_

Draco’s face crumples. “Quite right,” he says, shooting Harry one last look before running off stage.

Harry whips around towards the audience, in the direction of the person who shouted those horrible words. _“I’m_ the one who decides whether someone is ‘good enough’,” he spits, “And if you’re judging someone without knowing them first, then Draco Malfoy is a better person than you’ll ever be.”

“Mr Potter!” Graham starts as Harry takes off. He throws up his hand in frustration, his apologies lost in the chaos as the crowd’s surprise morphs into disbelief, excitement and anger.

It takes several seconds for Harry’s eyes to adjust after exiting the bright lights of the studio. The narrow corridor backstage is filling with a growing number of gawkers, but Draco is nowhere to be found. Harry barely slows as he rounds the corner, frantically casting a _Homenum Revelio_ at every door he encounters.

He skids to a stop finally when Hermione and Ron intercept him. “I’m sorry, mate,” Ron begins. “I—”

“I know where Draco is,” Hermione interrupts breathlessly.

Harry latches onto her words like a lifeline. “Hermione; I need to talk to him—”

“I _know,”_ she insists. “Come with me.” She grabs him forcibly by the hand and leads him to one of the dressing rooms.

“In there,” she half-orders, half-suggests as she pushes him forward.

Harry’s eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s surprisingly neat, with Graham’s numerous trophies lining one shelf, and a wall full of pictures of both Muggle and wizarding celebrities above a small desk and an unassuming couch. “Hermione!” he calls out, puzzled. “Draco’s not in—”

The door opens. “What in Salazar’s name are you doing, Pansy?” someone shouts as they stumble forward, crashing into Harry.

Harry’s world tilts unsteadily; he fights to catch his breath as the door slams shut behind them. “Draco…”

“Potter.” Draco’s face is pinched, his features even sharper than usual as his mouth draws into an angry line. “Pansy, you bloody bint! Let me out of here right now, or you’re off my Christmas list forever!”

Pansy manages to sound shirty, even through the slab of oak wood. “I’d rather be off your Christmas list than listen to you moon over Potter for another minute. Fifteen years is long enough, don’t you think?”

Harry’s jaw drops as Draco turns a bright red. “Fifteen years?” he mouths, unable to contain a smirk.

“And you too, Harry,” Hermione adds. “I’m not putting up with your drunken, middle-of-the-night Floo calls anymore whenever Draco goes out on a date.”

The colour in Harry’s face nearly matches Draco’s as Draco arches his brow.

“The door’s charmed,” Pansy continues, adding to their humiliation. “It won’t open until one of three things happen: you kill each other; you work out your differences; or you shag.”

“Choices two _and_ three are another option as well,” Hermione giggles.

Harry throws up his hands. “Where’s Ron?” he shouts at the door. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione?”

“Stand back,” Draco orders, pushing him out of the way. He draws his wand, firing off an _Alohomora_ and then a _Portaberto_ when that fails. “I don’t understand,” he says, his brow furrowed prettily as he frowns.

“Maybe an _Open Sesame?”_ Harry suggests. They stand back, firing the spell at the same time, with only the groan of a hinge and a puff of smoke to show for it. “What the…?”

“Damn your friend for developing all these experimental spells as an Unspeakable,” sighs Draco.

“Hermione is your friend as well.” Harry lowers his wand. “Is it really so horrible to be stuck here with me?”.

It takes a while for Draco to answer. “I don’t think you realise just how distressing it was to discover Henry was _you._ Although, I blame myself. I mean... _Henry Popper?”_

“You liked me when I was Henry,” Harry says quietly.

“I like you as ‘Harry’, too.” He bites his lips, then lets out a long sigh. “Merlin, I’ve liked you for the longest time.”

Harry’s chest flares with hope. “Then why can’t we make this work? Us. I’ve wanted you for much longer than this stupid game show. That night in Gwynedd...”

Draco makes a pained sound. “A near mistake.” His nostrils flare, and he looks almost angry when Harry’s expression turns mulish. “Don’t give me that look; you can’t take a piss without it appearing on the front page of the _Prophet._ How do you think the public will react once you start dating an ex-Death Eater?”

“Fuck the public! They’ll always find something to complain about. Whether it’s the fact that I’m into wizards, or that I drink or swear, or that I’d failed to smile at Mrs Smith when she waved at me from halfway down the street. It’s bollocks, and I don’t care.”

 _“_ But _I_ do! Because no matter what you think, they’re going to hound us everywhere, probably to the point where you’ll start to resent me. And if that happens…” Draco clenches his fists at his sides, not willing to say anything further.

“If that happens, then what?”

“Being an Auror has meant everything to me. Being your partner, especially.”

“So, if that’s true...tell me if I’m out of line, but we’ve just spent a week dating each other, with pretty brilliant results. Why wouldn’t you want to see if we could be partners, in every sense of the word?”

“And what happens if things don’t work out? If you think that your privacy is horrible now, could you imagine what would happen if we started dating? Will you end up hating me because of what our relationship did to your life? I’d lose you—not just as a lover, but as my partner and friend.”

Harry runs his hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’re worried about this bollocking up our partnership, it’s too late for that.”

Draco’s face drains of colour. “What?”

“I can’t separate you from ‘Derek’, because you’re one and the same. I can’t work with you a couple feet away and our desks right next to one another, and act like nothing has changed. I’m not trying to be a pillock; if you had no feelings for me, I’d deal with that as best as I could. But to know that you like me...that you’re choosing the prejudices of the public over what we could have—”

“Harry.” The word comes out small, and Draco looks absolutely heartbroken. “You’re everything that I’ve wanted, and can’t have. You’ve _always_ been that for me.”

“You told me so much about yourself on the first night of this show, but I never shared anything about me.” Harry takes one step closer, and then another. “If I could be a magical beast, I’d choose a phoenix. Because I want to know that we could be reborn. That we can survive our past, including our mistakes, and come out better for it.”

There’s a quick rise and fall to Draco’s chest but he doesn’t move away, something that ignites an ember of hope. Harry moves in, giving in to the urge to brush aside the fall of hair that covers Draco’s face. He drinks in the beauty of Draco’s pale lashes, the otherworldly grey of his eyes, and the way they cloud heavily with doubt. “My worst quality? That’s hard,” Harry laughs quietly. “Only because there’s so many to choose from. I’m headstrong; I’ve got quite a temper. And I can be one stubborn tosser. But my best? It’s that I’d _never_ hold anyone to some unacceptable, unattainable standard. Because I know what it means to be subjected to such unrealistic expectations myself.”

Draco breaks. A desperate sound leaves his mouth and he surrenders despite his reservations as he leans into Harry, nuzzling at his throat.

“Harry,” he whispers. The tip of his nose brushes against Harry’s skin as he a deep breath. Inhaling as if he can’t get enough.

“I want you, Draco,” Harry murmurs against his hair. “I’ve been trying to find my perfect match and it’s been you, all along.”

“Fuck. Harry. I feel that way, too.” Draco launches himself into Harry’s arms, his fingers carding through the strands of Harry’s hair before making their way down his shoulders, his sides, his back. Harry growls in response, his heart soaring as he kisses _Draco_ for the first time _,_ with his smooth, pale skin, lush lips, sharp features, and wicked tongue. Draco kisses like he fights, with absolute conviction and a simmering passion that threatens the limits of his control as he goads Harry on.

“Salazar; we’re really doing this, aren’t we?” he gasps.

“Yes.” Harry pulls at the waist of Draco’s trousers, rucking up the shirttails as he drinks in the sight. Draco is absolutely beautiful; his body arches towards Harry, even as his skin prickles from the heat of his touch. Harry pushes him against the wall, his mouth greedy as his hands work at the fly of Draco’s pants. He’s so caught up in happiness and desire that he fails to notice the lock to the door breaking in a flurry of sparks, until it swings wide open with a bang.

Ron’s face is beet red. “Oh, fuck.”

“My, my,” Pansy smirks. “Looks like you owe me, Granger.”

Hermione’s expression shifts rapidly, fading from irritated shock to something more pleased. “We thought...we didn’t hear anything for a while.” She clears her throat as Pansy laughs. “We just wanted to make sure that both of were all right.”

“More than, by the looks of things.” Graham’s voice pipes up from behind her, followed by the wide lenses of three television cameras. His eyes trail over Harry and Draco’s rumpled forms; apparently, he deems their mussed hair and swollen mouths to be good for ratings, because his toothy grin grows even wider.

“Looks like we made a match,” someone remarks.

“Is there anything you’d like to share with our audience, gentlemen?”

Harry takes a look at Draco, who gives a small shake of his head. “Sorry, Graham; as much as we appreciate the show for getting us to this point, I think your censors would prefer if we kept the next bit private.” With a wave of his wrist, Harry casts a wordless and wandless spell that bolts the door shut.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Draco snickers, unable to hide his grin.

“I don’t care.” He groans as he backs Draco up against the desk. “You’re driving me crazy. Too impatient.”

Draco’s breaths come a bit faster. “Really? For what?”

“This.” Harry palms Draco’s bum, giving it a possessive squeeze. “I want to love you, to learn every inch of your skin. I want to hold you as you fall asleep. I want to kiss you in the morning, and make you breakfast in bed, then do it all over again.”

“Only that?” Draco teases

“For starters.”

“It’s perfect,” Draco whispers. Never mind hanging the moon; he’s so beautiful in his happiness that Harry’s jumping over it. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” he says, sealing the deal with a kiss. And that kiss—like everything else between them, full of feeling and promise—truly is.

**_~Fin~❤️_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Come say "hi" on Tumblr: [nerdherderette](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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